Trusty John
by nimmieamee
Summary: Minific. Four marauders and two very different storytellers and one very old story.


They shared the name John. Not like John who had his head cut off. Not like John who drank blood and wrote a gospel. Like Trusty John. Trusty John, who the first John's mother had discovered in Mr. Lang's books, which she kept in a battered trunk and dragged from place to place. Trusty John, who the second John's mother had found in Warning Tales For Young Wizards and Witches, which she proudly displayed on the shelf and brought out each night before bedtime.

But their friends, not-Johns, both, had never heard the story. So it came out in a great series of interruptions, as both tale-tellers preferred their own version, and as the audience was a rather unruly lot, and prone to cutting in anyway. Was Trusty John a servant, or a royal mage? Did it matter, when he'd been entrusted with the prince of the realm, by sacred order of the king?

"No, it wasn't a king," said the second John. "It was simply a normal wizard."

Either way, there was Trusty John, caring for the child, teaching him to protect himself, and helping him win the hand of the princess.

"Princess?" said the second John. "No princess! The story never had a princess."

"Bloody good, too," said the audience. "It's taking long enough to tell it."

The first John said, "Trusty John met three ravens. Oh, fine, sure. Animagi. We can call them Animagi. No, no, I'm sure in your version they are Animagi, but obviously they aren't called that in the Muggle version. Anyway, Trusty John overhears— No? the ravens tell him directly? Fine. Directly, for they're his old housemates. Hufflepuffs."

Jeering from the audience.

"The Animagi tell him that something will harm the prince. They tell him how to stop it. He has to do strange things to stop it. Things that will make the prince mistrust him. Fine. Ancient spells. He has to do ancient spells. He has to kill the prince's horse, and he can't tell the prince why, or he'll be turned to stone up to his knees. No, the prince cannot just replace the horse with a bloody broomstick. Anyway, Trusty John has to spill all the prince's wine – fine, firewhiskey – and he can't tell the prince why, or he'll be turned to stone up to his waist. And he has to draw blood from the princess – alright. Sure. There's no princess. From himself. And he can't explain why, or he'll be turned to stone all completely.

"Well, the prince is fine with the dead horse. The prince is fine with the wine. But he draws the line at Trusty John cutting himself up. He asks John why. He tells John he is now mistrusted unless he explains. That he will be put to death unless he answers to his prince, his friend. So John tells him. And is turned to stone, completely. And the prince – now a king, a grown man – realizes how stupid he's been, not to trust his lowborn, loyal mate. But then the prince learns that if he sacrifices his own children and rubs their blood on John, John will come back to life."

"Dark Magic!" cried the audience, and the second John concurred.

The first John said, "So the king does it, and John comes back. And then, to reward the king for being loyal in turn, his children also come back to life. The end. Yes. No? What? The children stay dead in your version? John turns himself back to stone to bring them back, because that's how loyal he is? Because he knows it's either him, or the babies?

"That's stupid. If that's the story, then there's no point to loyalty at all. I mean, I suppose loyalty for its own sake. But—Hm. No. No, I suppose that is the moral. Sometimes there is no reward."

"Too bad you got the soppy revisionist version, Remus John," said Sirius not-John, the audience.

"And Peter John's so helpfully reminds us not to trust in Dark Magic," said James, also not-John, also the audience. "I like Peter John's better. Yours teaches us – what? To write in lots of extraneous princesses?"

"Point to the other John, then. I'll give it to him gladly. Because sometimes there isno reward, but you have to be loyal anyway. Even if it means your life. Even if it swallows you up and turns you to stone. Because it's the right thing to do. And the magical version is truer to life, I suppose."

"Yes, yes," Peter said, a bit nervously. "That's how I always took it. In life. I mean. Sometimes, with loyalty. There is no…"

Peter thought of the face, frozen in fear, the creeping stillness of the stone traveling up its limbs, the wailing of the now-living children, and the horrible death at the end of the bedtime story. He said: "You don't get anything for loyalty. There is no reward."

* * *

originally posted on my tumblr, livesandliesofwizards.


End file.
